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Wednesday, February 6, 2013

Neighbors Called

then we say, (not too loud)
what gives
but the present, and accounted for
numbers off
on a holiday, free from calculators
turgid plots

hush tones power, over mono warm
fonts clash
sea foam spattering, rocks murder blood
iron tasted
like a good chef, stirring stewing boiling
pace marks

red blue nightmares, flash black hands
put up
posters over posters, town hall meeting
the end
bars bars bars, drunk dead stall
worth it

Maybe.



- B

Poet note: This is a form of poetry I've invented and am rather fond of. I call them "3-2-1" poems.